I don’t know when I first became aware of one Mr. Robby Benson, but I do know he was a major crush of mine when I was a teenager–he and Jan-Michael Vincent–and I also think he’s another one of those who definitely helped create a type for me; dark hair and bright blue eyes, and that smile! Jesus Mary and Joseph!
ODE TO BILLY JOE, Robby Benson, 1976
I wasn’t alone in my teen years crushing on Robby; I think most teenaged girls of my generation all had a bit of a crush on him. For one, he was ridiculously beautiful; it kind of should be against the law to look that good. He was also photogenic and telegenic, and I loved his speaking voice. I know my teen years are also when I developed my love of jeans cut Daisy Duke short; and as you can see from the pictures above, Robby’s were cut so short they were basically speedo-sized. Years later, Daisy Dukes were my favorite shorts to wear, because all modesty aside, I’ve always had muscular legs; assets best displayed in shorts cut immodestly short.
But in looking up information on Robby Benson for this post, I realized I had never seen the movie Ode to Billy Joe, which was one of his best-known films. I knew about the movie, of course, but never saw it. It was released the summer we moved to Kansas and it never played in Emporia, and I never saw it on television, either. So, yesterday, I remedied that by watching it on Youtube, which has the entire movie uploaded for free.
The movie itself is simple. Based on the story song by Bobbie Gentry that is probably one of the biggest and best-known hits of all time, it’s ethereal and mysterious and unclear; and the lyrics themselves create an indelible image of a rural Southern lunch and the casual, unknown to anyone speaking, cruelty of the conversation. The narrator had a strong connection to Billy Joe, and his suicide affects her deeply, but nobody really notices. It’s genius in exposing that Southern mentality of “the girls don’t matter”–no one’s noticed that she is connected to him in some way, no one notices that she’s upset, and the way Gentry sings the lyrics is so matter-of-fact yet horrible as she recounts an emotionally troubling experience for herself, and paints such a powerful image of the invisible daughter, left to grieve on her own for the boy she loved, and does she know the reason he jumped? I’ve always liked the song, even if it doesn’t work for me musically (the lyrics don’t match the melody), because it tells so many truths about rural Southern girls that what actually happened isn’t the point–the point is the isolation and loneliness she feels, and the alienation from her own family.
The movie, screenplay and novelization by Herman Raucher of Summer of ’42 fame, fleshed out all those mysteries. It was from the movie and book that turned Ode to Billy Joe into a queer story and a tragedy; it’s also interesting that it wasn’t more of a scandal when the movie was released in 1976; maybe him having had a sexual encounter with another man and committing suicide took the sting and shock of the gay twist; after all, misery and suicide were the only possible outcomes for most queers in movies at the time. Watching the movie, but taking away my own quibbles about its depiction of southern rural life to talk about it as it stands as a queer film, it was really quite revolutionary. First of all, Robby Benson was a full-fledged teen heart throb with photo shoots in every magazine like 16 and Tiger Beat, and having someone who didn’t telegraph gay (or the societal images of what gay looked like then) who was also a heart throb playing the part was putting an acceptable face on a (at the very least) bisexual character. What was also interesting to me about the film was that it was produced by Max Baer (aka Jethro from The Beverly Hillbillies), and the man Bobby Joe had the encounter with was played by James Best, who would go on to greater celebrity and fame as Sheriff Roscoe P. Coltrane on The Dukes of Hazzard later on in the decade. Glynis O’Connor is fine as Billie Lee (seriously, Bobby Joe and Billie Lee? I have an army of relatives from the rural south, and out of all of them there is exactly ONE who has that stereotyped Southern two first names thing), but Benson’s appeal is clearly on display here–and I understand why girls loved him so much: he always played sensitive and vulnerable young men, which girls love.
And he is just stunningly beautiful in this movie.
Benson’s most successful role of all time was, ironically, from voice work: he voiced the Beast in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast.
I also found it interesting the Bobby Joe committed suicide in the Tallahatchee River, which was also where the white supremacists dumped Emmett Till’s body…so that river is kind of hexed, wouldn’t you think?
He also aged incredibly well–Benson is still quite beautiful.
Yesterday was an odd work-at-home Friday. Our power went in and out a few times during the day, and that threw everything off–laundry, work, plans for the day. But it did gradually and eventually all get finished in the end so Paul and I could spend the evening riveted by Under the Bridge. We only have two episodes left and it’s soooo good, and so delightfully queer-which was a delightful and unexpected surprise. Lily Gladstone continues to own the screen, and I can’t wait to see the final two tonight when Paul gets home from tabling at Pride for Saints and Sinners.
I slept really well last night, which was marvelous. I woke a bit later than I originally had intended, but that’s okay. I want to get some more cleaning done around the house this morning before I take books to the library sale, pick up the mail, and make groceries; then I intend to get some more writing done today. I did some more thinking about it last night before Paul got home, and I think I almost have the voice right. I also did some more research while he was at the gym–nothing like reexamining pop culture and the news during a distant time period (note to self: TV Guide archives must be checked as well), because it brings back memories, which also helps put me in the right mental place to write and create the story. I also kind of know how the story is going to go, and I also came up with another idea for the beginning, which I also really like. (I just had one of those imposter syndrome moments, where my brain suddenly panics and thinks, that isn’t going to work. Sometimes I really hate my brain…
During one of the power outages yesterday I decided to use the time productively and walked to the gym to do rehab exercises. It made sense when I thought about it–I mean, without power or Internet I can’t work, so utilize the time, right?–but after getting damp with sweat walking over there on a “feels like 105” afternoon, sweating more during the rehab exercise, and getting soaked with sweat walking home to a house without power that was getting hotter wasn’t perhaps the wisest choice? The power was still out for about an half hour or so at that time, so I took a very quick shower while the apartment began cooling down again and felt ever so much better. I also don’t feel exhausted or tired this morning, so maybe physically I am beginning to get back my stamina and getting back to normal, which is terrific. I was starting to worry that I was never going to do so, and I am nothing if not incredibly impatient.
I also watched Ode to Billy Joe yesterday (the film is on Youtube for those inclined to watch it again) because I’d been looking into Robby Benson for a Pride post, as he helped me understand that I liked men instead of women–so, so beautiful–and I realized I’d never watched this movie….and the movie, it turns out, is what fleshed the song out to give us a reason why Billy Joe jumped off the bridge; he’d been with a man, and the shame drove him to it because it was such an ugly thing to be that suicide made the most sense as an option. I’d heard the theory that he killed himself for being gay before, but didn’t realize it came from the movie…and the novelization of the script was written by Herman Raucher, who’d also written Summer of ’42, a coming of age novel and movie that were also kind of formative for me. Looking into it, it was released in the summer of 1976. We moved to Kansas that summer and the movie didn’t play locally, and I’d never watched any of its television airings. Anyway, the movie was interesting but there were lots of parts to it that didn’t play well for me today–I am always prickly about the way films have rural Southern people talk–but keep an eye out for my Robby Benson post if you’re interested in him.
I do feel good this morning, which is nice. I’ll go get cleaned up in a bit, but am going to work on either entries or the prologue this morning. I also plan on doing some rereading of my own work today–I am definitely moving Never Kiss a Stranger to the top of the to-write pile, because I am not entirely sure about the y/a I want to turn from novella into novel; I’m not entirely sold on the plot, to be honest. I also want to work on the kitchen this morning, too; I did buy the wrong vacuum cleaner (mine is a rug cleaner; so I can put water and shampoo in it to clean the carpets too, but it does work as a very powerful vacuum, so I’ll go ahead and use it–and maybe next weekend, I’ll clean the Oriental rugs with it.
Yesterday the right, through The Federalist, decided to come for Dolly Parton and basically call her a false prophet and a “danger” to Christianity. The recovering alcoholic who wrote the hit piece, Ericka Andersen, is about what you’d expect: a self-righteous born-again Christian who thinks she knows the faith better than anyone who ever lived or ever will live, which of course is apostasy, but she’s a soulless troll who got the attention she wanted. Andersen’s social media is now completely shut down as she is in the find-out phase of coming for Dolly. Dolly has not only given the world decades of amazing music and entertainment, she is also one of the most generous people alive, using her money and her fame to do good works in the world and is always kind and understanding and sympathetic; the woman literally loves everyone even her harshest critics. If ever there was an example of what it is like to truly follow the Christian path, it’s Dolly Parton–but you know, giving kids free books, donating millions of dollars to charity every year, and her incredible generosity to her employees at Dollywood? Sorry she won’t condemn people you don’t like, cosplay Christian piece of shit. And for the record, Megan McCain is married to the head of the Federalist Society–which is all anyone needs to know about what utter and complete garbage they are.
Seriously, they’ve come for Taylor Swift and now Dolly. Next thing you know they’ll come for Cher–which is something I would love to see them try.
And on THAT note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Saturday, and I’ll be back later, okay?
Tuesday morning and trying to get awake fully; my mind is awake and my body is, but I still feel a bit groggy. I slept well, which was absolutely lovely, and am sitting here swilling coffee and getting mentally prepared to face the day. I have to run errands tonight after work (prescriptions, mail, gym), and then I am going to come home and just chill for the evening, maybe do a little writing. I didn’t do any last night, because I wanted to watch the regional final (LSU lost in extra innings to the fourth ranked team in the country and could have won), after which I didn’t do much of anything just puttered around the kitchen doing chores until it was time for bed.
The LSU loss was disappointing, of course, but the Tigers made a helluva run in the post season. Just three weeks ago, no one thought they’d even make the post season, let alone get to a regional final. But then they had their amazing run in the SEC tournament, eliminating top ten teams left and right before giving Tennessee a run for their money in the final. So, well done, guys! Sure, another world series run would have been fun this year, but not having one does in no way diminish or undermine how magical last season was, or make it any less wonderful to remember. GEAUX TIGERS, and we’ll see you again next spring….and now it’s time to start gearing up for football season, which isn’t that far off. Woo-hoo!
I’ve been posting my Gay Moments in Greg’s Life entries, which has been kind of fun doing. Right now, I have several drafts in progress about dancing in gay bars, circuit parties, and body culture–which all will be interesting to write–and of course at some point I will probably write about HIV/AIDS. I enjoyed writing my Pride entry and the ones about The Other and Starsky and Hutch; probably will do Robby Benson, Playgirl, and Gordon Merrick at some point, too. I also will probably do some others, but right now I can’t think of what they might be. I’ve also started posting these longer form posts to Substack, too–if you’re reading them here, I don’t imagine there’s any need to read them there–but I think I need to start building up things; I don’t know if social media numbers or Substack followers or anything like that will matter in the long run in publishing. No one ever really knows what publishers are looking for or want; their criteria is ever changing but what isn’t is that the accountants also have their thumb on the scale. It is to my everlasting disappointment that my career started right when the industry began to substantially change from what it had been since the Depression to the disheveled mess it is now. At any rate, I think Substack is the place for me to post my personal essays, which is much easier than trying to find a place to publish any of them. Set a goal of perhaps one per week after the Great Moments in Greg’s Gay Life, or my pride celebratory posts are completed.
Something to consider, any way.
I know Substack is evil, but isn’t everything nowadays? The glory days of social media are, I think, finally past us; Twitter (fuck you, Musk) and Facebook aren’t nearly as much fun as they were over a decade ago, and kind of feel like some pointless obligation and reflex activity that really isn’t what’s cracked up to be anymore. It never really was, to be honest, and it was a horrible waste of time more than anything else, really. It also creates a bizarre illusory reality that bares no resemblance to real life. How many times have I been excited to meet someone because we’ve had a lot of fun interactions on-line, only for them to be like “who are you?” I noticed this early on, back in the days of Livejournal’s heyday when everyone blogged (and here I am, twenty years later–this blog will turn 20 on 12/26/24); you don’t really know someone from on-line social media interactions, and you’re certainly not friends. Needless to say, it was a learning experience (I never have really understood friendship, in all honesty; what I think it is clearly is not what other people think it is, and maybe that’s a me problem–which is why I always have so many walls I can withdraw behind, so many masks I can slip on; when you grow up queer in a homophobic society, you develop lots of coping mechanisms), and I always now just say “we know each other on-line” instead of “oh I love her! We’re friends”.
Now that social media has turned into what it is, I am not on it as much and…I don’t really miss it? And it’s very noticeable how much time I used to waste on it.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Hope you have a lovely Tuesday and who knows? I may be back later.
Monday morning, and back up before dawn to get ready to head into the office. Huzzah! I slept really well last night, and had no trouble getting up this morning, which I was a bit concerned about given how much sleep I was getting over the weekend. But I feel awake and conscious and good this morning, so that’s very promising.
LSU won both games yesterday (13-6 over Wofford; 8-4 over North Carolina) which puts them in the regional final, winner take all. I flipped between the games and whatever we were watching yesterday (we finished Anthracite, and caught up on Interview with the Vampire), which was nerve-wracking as always whenever LSU plays (I don’t stress or get anxiety over the games anymore–thank you, new meds–so I can enjoy it more, but yesterday I couldn’t bear the tension). I”m not entirely sure I am going to watch tonight’s game, either; I guess it depends on when it is. I also spent some time yesterday reading (The Rival Queens) and writing. I managed to get two or three blog entries posted yesterday, too, and I like that I am doing this “Great Gay Moments in Greg’s Life” type thing. I did Starsky and Hutch and an overall, general “meaning of Pride” post, and I feel pretty good about both of those this morning. I also worked on the prologue to The Summer of Lost Boys, which I will try to get more work done on that today.
The weekend was good, to be honest; I felt good all weekend (if lazy–the thunderstorms had something to do with that, and yes, we had them yesterday too), and while I didn’t get everything done that I would have liked to, I’m pretty okay with it. Today is forecast to be cloudy but without rain, which hopefully will make it cooler–or at least not feel as hot. I spent most of yesterday under my blanket in a chair, which was marvelous. When Sparky wasn’t being Demon Kitty he would sleep in my lap, which was very sweet. It won’t take me long to catch up on my emails, either–I’m doing a pretty good job of staying on top of those, too–and I’m pretty much caught up on my day job duties, too. I’m behind already on the writing schedule I set for myself this year–but the beauty of that is that it’s my deadlines, and no one else’s, so missing them isn’t affecting anyone other than myself.
I also scribbled in my journal a lot this weekend, which is very cool to be doing again. Overall, I am feeling good again these days, which is great. I’m starting to feel connected to my writing again, and remembering that I don’t have to kill myself to get some done is not a bad thing, either.
This morning’s coffee is quite tasty, too, I might add.
All right, it’s time for me to get cleaned up and head into the office. Have a lovely Monday, Constant Reader, and I’ll most likely be back later. If not, GEAUX TIGERS!
As I have been reviewing things that helped confirm to myself as a child that I was a big old homo (for my book The Summer of Lost Boys), I found myself remembering a lot of things, memories from the darkest dusty and cobwebbed chasms of my memory banks.
But as a kid, realizing that I was drawn to men more than women was difficult and weird, and not in the least because I didn’t understand what women saw in men; their sex symbols, to me, left a lot to be desired. I grew up on the cusp of some societal and cultural changes, and not the least of which was the fact that in the 1970s, men finally began being sexualized and held to a kind of male beauty standard that gradually changed that standard–which for a burgeoning young gay boy, was perfect timing. I never understood, for example, what girls saw in teen idols–sure, Bobby Sherman and Davy Jones and David Cassidy were cute…but I didn’t think of them as sexy or sexualized; the Tiger Beat crowd was very into guys who were not sexually threatening–these weren’t guys they wanted to fuck but rather ones they wanted to hold hands with and go on dates to malt shops and movies with, and chastely kiss good night. I never really got the sense that women ever wanted to fuck their sex symbols, either–there was an odd chasteness to women (the old madonna/whore paradigm) in their fandoms. You never heard a woman saying she wanted to fuck Paul Newman or Robert Redford or Burt Reynolds; there was more to it than just sexual energy.
But “Women’s Lib” began taking flight in the 1970s, as did queer rights, and a gradual shift in the paradigm of what is sexy in a man and what isn’t began changing. It was the decade Playgirl launched (more on that later), Jim Palmer began doing underwear ads, and the poster of Mark Spitz and his gold medals wearing a speedo sold like cheap beer on a payday.
And it also began the rise of the himbo shows; the male equivalent of all those jiggle shows with big breasted girls without a bra jumping up and down; those shows were almost guaranteed ratings in the Top Ten. Starksy and Hutch was the first real himbo show that I can remember; David Soul and Paul Michael Glaser were very good looking with great bodies that were very masculine as well–and the show showed them shirtless as much as possible, or in towels, or–you get the idea. They drove a fast car with an odd but distinctive paint job (cars were also stars that decade) and the show also not only was a hit but a part of the zeitgeist, too. I watched every week–as did my sister and almost every girl I knew–but it being a macho cop show, it was okay for men to watch, too.
And if there was an Internet and fan fic, a lot of people would have been writing erotic romances about the two of them.
Their closeness as characters as well as their chemistry, and their willingness to appear half-naked at the drop of a hat certainly made the show popular with gay men–and the stars also didn’t mind playing into the gay interest in the show, as you can see by the picture of them running hand in hand on the beach.
They also did a lot of those kinds of promo photo shoots.
Glaser’s wife later contracted AIDS from a blood tranfusion, and the two of them spent a lot of their time and energy working for AIDS treatment, education, and a cure.
That M People song was released in the mid-1990’s, and has become kind of a queer anthem in the time since. It was used in the original American adaptation of Queer as Folk, and it gets played a lot during Pride Month. I loved the M People; I have one of their CD’s and they were prominent on my dance soundtrack of 1994-1996 (“Sight for Sore Eyes” is still a great song I have on Spotify playlists today), which is also a time I am writing about (sidebar: maybe “Never Kiss a Stranger” is a novel not a novella), so it stays fresh in my head.
Pride is a direct response to shame–because so many of us were forced to live in shame about who we are and just existing for so fucking long, we now choose to come out and be proud rather than ashamed of who and what we are, despite the bigots who continue to try to legalize oppression of us while all we really want is to be left alone to live our lives in peace. I will never be made to feel ashamed of myself for who I am any more. And no, I’m not sorry that my existence bothers some people because you know what? Their existence bothers me–-but the primary difference is I am not trying to force them to stop existing or even to like queer people.
Pride is of course one of the seven deadly sins for Christians—Proverbs 16-18: Pride goeth before destruction, And a haughty spirit before a fall. Better it is to be of a lowly spirit with the poor, than to divide the spoil with the proud.
So, the use of the way “pride” for our month of celebration inevitably brings out the faux-christians, screaming about sin and…but as I said, our pride is the opposite of shame, and we are reclaiming ourselves and refusing to be shamed for who we are anymore. And yes, the shaming always comes from christians cishets (I prefer the French pronunciation shah-SHAY) —you know, the ones who are supposed to love without question? And ultimately, my life and my sins are between me and God—and none of your fucking business.
But this post is for those of you who stubbornly refuse to get it: my sexuality doesn’t impact you AT ALL.
Why do they need a whole month? Veterans only get a day is one of my absolute favorites. First, the use of “they”, while politer and not quite as insulting, is really no different from the ever-popular bigoted “you people”; so I guess props are in order for being slightly more polite (although I suppose if they knew it was politer they’d use you people, or to be grammatically correct, those people)? As for veterans only getting a day while we get a month, well, I don’t seem to recall legislation being passed on any level of government legalizing discrimination against veterans. (Although the way our government treats its veterans is disgraceful–and as always, the war hawks who love to send young men and women to risk their lives, mental health, and limbs for a foreign policy predicated on ensuring corporations make as much money as humanly possible will always vote to cut or eliminate veterans’ benefits while waving Support the troops! banners and flags–because they are nothing if not craven, vile, and completely soulless.) The combined efforts of government and medical science were applied for years to criminalize and stamp out the existence of queer people. Homosexuality was still considered a mental illness (!!!!) until I was twelve years old. How precisely does one grow up well-balanced mentally and emotionally when you are repeatedly told that what you are is actually insane? (And coming from a family where mental health issues are genetic…and knowing that I had my own mental health issues already wasn’t helpful; I thought for a long time the two were connected.)
And for the record, May is Military Appreciation Month, and the fact they don’t know this makes a mockery of their religion, their intelligences, and their feigned concern for the military.
If the cishets had to put up with, for one day–a mere twenty-four hours–what queer people do every day, they’d become homicidal.
And telling people they cannot legally discriminate against a fellow American citizen is not forcing them to accept and/or like queer people; it’s merely telling them they must treat queer people with the same respect they’d treat anyone (oh, the horror). The entire point of this country, from its beginning (although it has often failed to live up to that ideal) is that every citizen is equal in the eyes of the law–regardless of anything that might make them slightly different, especially when the difference is so slight as to not be noticeable. I don’t know why this is so hard for people, I really don’t. (And yes the convictions of Greg Stillson last week affirmed this guiding principle for the nation and his worshippers choosing to not accept that is more example of their utter contempt for this country, period. Some ‘patriots’.)
And if you don’t want to be compared to Nazis, then stop coming for marginalized groups and scapegoating them. Your dishonesty is not only un-Christian, but inhuman. It is not for other humans to judge sin; that is, per your own Holy Book and what you theoretically believe, reserved for a God who is very jealous about what is His and what is not. I believe in Christianity as a game-plan or road map to being a good person and doing good things in my life; I do not believe in talking snakes or trumpets so loud they can make walls collapse or that having heatstroke on the road to Damascus was actually divine intervention. I do not believe Paul had visions of Jesus, so anything written by him in the New Testament is suspect and not gospel.
I am also willing to account for that, if need be, if there ever actually is a Judgment Day. But what I believe is between me and God. To paraphrase Cher, I account to three people: myself, Paul, and God.
What I do know is that if there is a God and such a thing as a heaven, going to church three times a week while acting like a hateful piece of trash the rest of the week ain’t getting your ass into your heaven. You’re literally doing the bare fucking minimum, and those three hours or so you’re spending in church are just a waste of your time because you aren’t learning anything or striving to be better.
And any heaven that welcomes people like Phyllis Schlafly, Anita Bryant, Maggie Gallagher et al is not my idea of heaven; spending eternity with those people would be Hell.
This year, Pride seems all the more important–certainly more than it has in years. I haven’t been to Pride in a very long time–I’ve been to a lot of Prides over the years–and probably won’t attend this year either; it’s too hot for one, and the older I get the less I like being hot, sweating, and tired in crowds.
I hate to break it to the homophobic trash, but nothing you say is original or something we haven’t heard a gazillion times before. I’ve said it before and will say it again: fuck all the way off. Miss me with your concerns about “the children” when you aren’t concerned, for example, about the need to teach kindergartners what to do if there’s an active shooter in their school. Miss me with your concerns about “the children” when the states passing the worst anti-queer laws are the same ones where child beauty pageants are the most popular. Where is the outrage about sexualizing children in that instance, Moms for Liberty? Yes, painting a six-year-old’s face like she’s a streetwalker and dressing her provocatively for a chance at a sash and a trophy is absolutely one-hundred-percent okay with you? These are also the same states that allow underage marriage and have almost complete abortion bans.
Moms for Liberty is just another incarnation of the hate group One Million Moms (who never ever had more than fifty thousand members); which is why I always say queers can never completely trust a lot of straight white women. (Let’s never forget that straight white women gave us President Donald Trump. Ever. This should be their everlasting shame.)
It’s also going to be interesting to see what companies and corporations will be making a play for queer dollars during Pride Month, while donating money to anti-queer politicians and stay silent when all these horrendous laws are being passed. Target? Anheuser Busch? Miss me with the rainbows and pride statements this year. You have a chance to stand up when it mattered and instead you turned into pathetic sniveling cowards waving a white flag–proving that your so-called “commitment” to equality and my community was nothing more than a disgusting, shameless attempt to attract queer dollars and the money of our allies. Shame on you both. I don’t drink beer, but when I did I drank a lot of Bud Light in gay bars because of their support of the queer community. But when they had an opportunity to take a principled stand for equality and against bigotry, they crumbled like a finely aged feta. Same with Target, which was even sadder because they had been so supportive. But I will never step inside another Target and I will never order from their website. My Target credit card will get paid off as quickly as possible so they make as little money from me in the future as possible, and I have already cut it up because I will never support that shitty, backstabbing, cowardly piece of shit company again.
I’ve always kind of had an issue with the corporatization of Pride over the years. Yes, I get it; they are usually non-profit organizations who need to raise money to pay expenses and put the show on. You need donors for that–as every nonprofit does–and so the swing to wooing businesses and multi-billion dollar corporations began…as well as the complaints about the merchandizing of Pride. But Pride was, and always has been, an event to celebrate every color in our rainbow and to show the world that we’re here and we aren’t going anywhere; we are not ashamed nor will we be shamed. We aren’t going back into the closet for anyone. Period.
It’s always amused me to listen to people complain about Pride, with the leathermen and the kink fetishists and the drag queens. “I don’t want my kids to see that!” Then keep your fucking kids at home. Any Pride that turns it back on any part of the community is notPride. I’m tired of being penalized because other people have had children—your children are NOT my responsibility.
I already pay taxes to educate them.
I also hate the shaming of kink; the attempt to remove drag queens and the leathermen and so forth from Pride celebrations because that makes the straights uncomfortable frankly disgusts me. Just because some queers have issues with kink—well, that’s their problem, and if anything, we all should be grateful to them. The leathermen and drag queens were out and proud when a lot of their current critics cowered in their closets, while the kinksters and queens were out fighting for the rights of the cowards, creating a community and a world in which they were free to come out…only to want to drive the people responsible for that freedom and community out of Pride. “I want to bring my kids to Pride but I don’t want them to see that.”
What the fuck, people? Don’t you understand that the only reason you can be queer in public with your kids is becauseof the very people you don’t want your children to see? It’s bad enough the straight use “the children” to try to take away our rights; it’s even worse when people within our community try the same tactics. I don’t know, maybe reexamine your own internalized homophobia rather than trying to reshape the community?
The original Prides were protests, and the original parades were protest marches. Seeing how Pride has, over the years, sold its soul and meaning to corporate sponsors saddens me. Those sponsors are mostly interested in queer dollars only (see: Target and Budweiser) and not in actually supporting the community and our rights (see: Target and Budweiser); you can tell by how quickly they back down when the Christofascists have a problem with their support of our community (see: Target and Budweiser).
That shallow support is unwelcomed and unwanted and very transparent.
Learn your history, queers. It wasn’t that long ago—during my own lifetime—that our sexuality stopped being considered mental illness. We’ve come pretty far in those fifty years, but we have a long way to go and the fight is not over. So, come out to Pride, and celebrate our hard-won freedoms. Be visible; because that visibility might help someone else come out and stop feeling shame. Create and live and love and vote and above all else, maintain queer joy in your life.
Because all of those things? Well, they’re also victories.
Sunday morning, after a gloomy rainy day (marvelous thunder and downpours off and on all day) where I pretty much just stayed indoors. I walked over to get the dry cleaning in the morning, and by the time I got back it was starting to sprinkle, and shortly after I came inside the floodgates opened. I curled up in my chair and read The Rival Queens for a while, then Paul got up and we finished watching Bodkin, which I enjoyed but didn’t care for the ending too much, after which we watched LSU lose to North Carolina (fourth ranked; LSU is number 24 and was only ranked after the SEC tournament, so no disgrace there, and they play to stay in the regional again today, against Wofford again. After the game we started Anthracite, a new French show on Netflix that is kind of off-kilter and very interesting. I did some writing in my journal, and I did do some chores around the house so it wasn’t a wash of a day, and really, who cares if it was? I really need to stop being so down on myself and recognize that sometimes I need downtime just like everyone else. I do want to do some things today, though–the whole day can’t be downtime, for sure. I also slept really well last night, for ten hours, which is insane. I am sleeping a lot lately and getting very good sleep, which has been lovely.
I have decided to do the occasional Pride blog post, about “things that made me realize I was gay” growing up, or things that I appreciated that probably were indicative of my sexual orientation from a very early age. Revisiting that dark closeted teenage space for this book hasn’t been terrific, but I think it will also help me deal with it, frankly. The 1970s are also an interesting time to go back to, as well, trying to dredge up memories that are long lost in the dark dusty recesses of my brain. I started a couple of said pride posts yesterday–one about The Other and one about Starsky and Hutch (which was really the first modern himbo show; more on that later)–and am thinking about other ones. My favorite gay anthems? I don’t know. But this year it seems very important to celebrate Pride–and shove it down the throats of the MAGA traitors and their evangelical cosplay Christian allies (looking at you, Mike the Self-righteous Johnson). After all, I can’t go anywhere without having a fucking cross shoved in my face.
Hey “christians”–more teaching by example and less demonstration of how Christian you are not, what do you think? Maybe then people will stop deserting your houses of worship, because they see the lies, self-righteousness, and utter hypocrisy that masquerades as faith in your befouled churches of blasphemy and apostasy.
It looks sunny outside this morning, so I think perhaps the rains of the last three days have now passed. That’s good, because I do want to go to the gym today to continue my rehabbing of my left arm. I am going to try this morning to get this and at least one other of the Pride posts done today; some writing and some chores, and when that’s all wrapped up I’ll head over to the gym for some rehab, come home and get cleaned up, and then read some more. I think I may stay away from LSU’s games today; if they beat Wofford again they face North Carolina again at six pm, for two games in one day, which is rough–and much as I love my Tigers, I can’t spend the day watching baseball, either.
And I am excited about writing again. It’s a lovely feeling. I’m not sure entirely what all I want to accomplish at this point other than trying to get the work done, but I definitely can get it all done if I keep my nose to the grindstone and keep working. I’m on my own schedule, so the only person being hurt if I take a day or so off from writing is me.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Sunday, Constant Reader, and I’ll probably see you again later today.
Today is two things–the start of hurricane season and the start of Pride Month. I have a Pride post that I definitely want to finish and post at some point, and I’ve not really decided what kind of entries I want to do–social media and here–to mark the month. I still think the thirty-four convictions of Greg Stillson was the best gift for Pride American queers have ever been given, to be honest, and I still am a little in shock that it happened–trial and verdict. And of course the traitors have all lost their treasonous little minds, too–my personal favorite is “if they can do this to him they can do it to anyone!”
Um yes, that’s precisely how laws and the judicial system work–no one is above the law in the United States.
Period.
I way overslept this morning, but we stayed up super late last night watching Bodkin (we only have two episodes left to go, and it’s really interesting; much more complex and clever than I’d originally given it credit for) but I wound up not getting into bed until midnight, and I didn’t get up until about nine thirty this morning. While I wanted to sleep in, I didn’t want to sleep in that late; I feel discombobulated and like I won’t be able to get the things done this morning I wanted to get done–but that’s just loser talk, methinks, and a way to give myself excuses for not taking the books to the library sale or washing the car or picking up the mail and dry cleaning or go to the gym. But now that my coffee is kicking in, I’m feeling more alive and awake and like fuck yeah I can get that shit done, get out of my way.
Always nice.
Yesterday was a good day. I worked at home, got all that done while laundering the bed linens, and ran my errands, did some cleaning around the house and later in the day we had a massive and marvelous thunderstorm. I grabbed The Rival Queens (my current nonfiction read) and spent some marvelous time with it in my easy chair. I do love that period of time, and I’ve always wanted to write about an adventurous fictional woman who was a member of Catherine de Medici’s Flying Squadron; an accomplished seductress spy, navigating the complicated politics of France during the Wars of Religion and the decline of the Valois dynasty. It was truly a fascinating period, not only in France, but throughout Europe. My next non-fiction read will probably be The King’s Assassin, the book on which Mary & George was based, and that’s another fun period I would like to write about. Someday. There really was nothing like the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries for upheaval and Game of Thrones-like cutthroat politics.
I also watched LSU’s thrilling baseball win over Wofford in the regionals yesterday, and they play again today at 4. GEAUX TIGERS!
I also looked at the submissions call for the story I am working on–thinking the deadline was May 31 only to discover it was actually June 1, which means I can let the story sit a while longer before revising it one more time to see if I can make it stronger. I am very pleased with how it’s going so far, and looking forward to getting some more writing done today. I am a little behind on my schedule thus far (the one I made earlier this week, remember?), but the deadline being later certainly has made that a bit simpler and easier to navigate without feeling pressure.
And on that note, I am going to get another cup of coffee and head into the spice mines. I’ll most likely be back later–that pride entry I want to write–and I also need to think about what kind of entries to do for Pride Month. Anyway, have a lovely Saturday, and I’ll check in with you again later, okay?
Someone really needs to do one of those music-themed crime anthologies built around either big band music, or the music of the Andrews Sisters; and In the Mood would be a great title for it, wouldn’t it? Don’t @ me, I’m not interesting in doing another anthology, thank you very much, praise Jesus and hope the creek don’t rise.
I was right; I got very mentally fatigued yesterday afternoon, and last night after we finished watching the second season of Euphoria, I was basically falling asleep in my chair. I’d swear we watched something else, too; oh yes, a stand-up comic special on Netflix, but I can’t remember the name of the comedian. I feel much more awake and alive today, which is a very good thing. I also feel a little bit behind this morning, and I am–not sure what that is about, but I am a bit off, too, I think, which is weird. But I enjoyed finishing the show–not sure if it’s coming back again or not, but the second season finale definitely wrapped everything up, so if it doesn’t the stories are pretty much finished for the most part. Zendaya was terrific–the whole cast, really; Paul and I were amused that the most level, centered and likable character on the show was Fez the drug dealer. Jacob Elordi is also memorable as sociopath Nate–casting beautiful people as monsters is genius, really.
I also didn’t write yesterday–the brain fatigue thing again, but at least this time it wasn’t the fog, you know? I do think I am starting to get back to normal, or what passes for it at any rate. It’s normal to be tired after not sleeping well. It’s normal to feel off after finally getting a good night’s sleep again. I was very tired when I got home, wasn’t I? I have some errands to run tonight, too–and tomorrow I am taking workout clothes for me to change into at work so I can go to the gym afterwards, see if this theory of changing at work and going directly there afterwards will work–we shall see, shan’t we?
One thing that I’ve been doing lately is submersing myself in the music of the 1970s, to help get myself more into the right space to write this book when I am ready to get started on it, and frankly, Top Forty music of the period–with a few exceptions–was awful and cheesy and terrible. So many novelty songs (“The Streak” by Ray Stevens jumps to mind, and there were so many others), so much cheese (Tony Orlando & Dawn, and so many other offenders), and some frankly terrible recordings surrounding the few gems that I don’t know how I listened to it growing up. But we did; both my sister and I always had our radios tuned into either WLS or WCFL for hours every day. I am trying to get the prologue to this finished this week, as well as revising another short story whose deadline is this weekend, and still really trying to get everything organized and sorted. I put some short story anthology call deadlines on my calendar yesterday, which was a nice start to get better organized, and I think, besides this book I want to finish, I am going to spend a lot of this summer trying to do more short stories. I also want to get the introduction to the short story collection finished by Monday, and a first chapter of the new Scotty done.
But my immersion in music of the early 1970’s–and other pop culture aspects of the time; television was also mostly garbage back then, too; thanks censors–also led me back around to listen to the eponymous first album by Boston in the car over the last two years, and it still holds up. It’s quite excellent, although I suppose it would be considered excessive nowadays; as rock music pushed boundaries in that decade and became more orchestral, especially in the second half of the decade. There’s not a song on that album that’s not a bop (in modern parlance), and it also put me in mind of other favorite albums from throughout my life–and making a list of them. I’ve always had a soundtrack album for my life, and revisiting music always brings back a lot of memories. Listening to the Billboard Top 100 of 1973 (awful as it was) made me remember other things–like Romper Room, Captain Kangaroo, Bozo’s Circus, and Ray Raynor’s show; the Saturday morning cartoons; and the horrible variety shows that were everywhere back then and finally died out in the early 1980’s. I really want this book to be good, and I’m going to have to go to a very dark place to write this book, too, and make it as real as possible…which is why I am immersing myself in the early 1970s. I am also reminding myself I can change things in the suburb to fit my writing needs; it doesn’t have to be exact, just as Bury Me in Shadows didn’t have to be correct about the homeplace. (My mind can be very annoying at times.)
But I feel good this morning, both mentally and physically. After work tonight I need to get the mail and make some groceries (not much, just a replace some things run) and then it’s home to write, possibly make dinner, and finish some chores. I am going to head into the spice mines now, so have a lovely Wednesday, Constant Reader, and I will be back probably later.
I read Dune for the first time when I was in high school. At the time, it was merely a trilogy, and the original was just starting to move from cult classic to widely read accepted classic. In the 1970s, the book was noted primarily for its commentary on ecology and the environment. I had never read anything like that. I’d not been into reading science fiction up until that time, and I didn’t really much care for science fiction movies, either; with their incredibly low budgets and amateurish special effects that always took you out of the story no matter how much you were enjoying it. I used to watch Flash Gordon serials, when some of those afternoon kids’ shows that Chicago’s television stations would run them–and while badly produced on a shoestring, the stories themselves were compelling enough to hold my interest, and Buster Crabbe was certainly good-looking enough to keep me interested.
I digress.
But reading Dune turned me into more of a science fiction fan than I had been already. Like I said, I’d never read anything like it, and while my teenaged self primarily was interested in the space opera elements of the story–prince loses everything to mortal enemies, but gets revenge on everyone, defeats the enemies of his family, and rises to become not only the new emperor but messiah of a new religion that takes over the vast reaches of the empire, and the holy war (jihad) of conversion that followed. One of the things I loved about the way Frank Herbert wrote the book was how it bounced around the galaxy, uncovering the mindsets and other conspiracies going on throughout the empire (politics) in what seemed like disconnected stories that all converged in the end and were resolved…while showing the connections that were there all along. I read the other two books in the original trilogy that year–Dune Messiah and Children of Dune–and I always thought the second was perhaps the weakest of the series. I’ve never reread any of the books–I think the series grew to six or seven before Herbert died and his heirs took over; I’ve not read any not-Frank generated Dune novels–other than the first, and I know the last time I reread Dune, I was really taken aback by the writing, which seemed poor. I would like to revisit Dune Messiah at some point because it’s more political than anything else; and also set up the rest of the series while the original remains as the only book of the series that can be read as a stand-alone.
Timothée Chalamet as Paul Atreides, the reluctant messiah
Star Wars was released the summer before my senior year in high school, and it changed special effects, and science fiction films, forever. So when the David Lynch film was released in the early 1980;s, I went into it expecting it to be more than it turned out to be. I had wondered how all the internal monologues would be handled, as well as the entire backstory that was necessary for the film to make sense to people who’ve not read the book. It was a big film, to be sure, but the effects weren’t great–and the choice to hear the internal thoughts as whispers, which meant almost fifty percent of the picture was whispered–weakened it. And really, most of the real action of the story takes place in the second half–and basically the Lynch film condensed the second half of the book to a quick transitional jump, and it wrapped up very quickly. (Having Paul bring rain to Arrakis in the final scene was also a bad choice, which negated everything about Dune’s ecology and the secret of the worms.) But I did like it, if parts (mostly Harkonnens) were over the top. But I was kind of excited to hear Denis Villeneuve was shooting it in two parts. I enjoyed the first part, but the second? Exceptional, and proved that Villeneuve’s vision for the property was the right one.
Dune Part 2 follows the book far more closely than any other adaptation has, which usually seems to run out of steam and time by the time Paul and his mother flee into the desert to seek safety with the Fremen. I also really liked how reluctant Paul was to assume leadership, or to launch his “religion”–because he IS the fulfillment of the Bene Gesserit “prophecy,” which was really just propaganda spread by Sisterhood missionaries centuries, if not millennia, before. He can see the possible futures as well as the entire past, and he knows his holy war will kill millions, if not billions, and he doesn’t want to be responsible for that. Dune Part 2 plays like a galactic Game of Thrones, and I appreciated all the politics on top of the action. I feel like this Villeneuve version of the story is the closest to what Herbert wrote and created. It’s an epic film, shot on an epic scale, with stunning visuals and strong performances–Austin Butler’s Feyd-Rautha makes you forget all about Sting’s bizarre performance in the Lynch version–and I do look forward to the next chapter in this sprawling saga.
Queer and Loathing in America 